


The Hand We're Dealt

by SilenceIsGolden15



Series: Voltron Oneshots [40]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Touch-Starved Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 07:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18006506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilenceIsGolden15/pseuds/SilenceIsGolden15
Summary: Even if he’d been sober he wouldn’t have been able to stop the sound that left him at that moment. Dimly the voice laughed but Keith didn’t even notice; he’d disappeared, disintegrated into the river Styx, and nothing else mattered. Nothing matter but the fact that someone was there, someone loved him, someone cared about him, someone was willing to just sit and touch without expecting anything from him in return, and he’d never admitted it to himself but it was all he’d ever wanted.





	The Hand We're Dealt

**Author's Note:**

> A short follow up to my bingo fic, Deal or No Deal

Everything was blurry. He’d been left alone after the injection, presumably to let it take effect, and he’d withstood it for nearly ten minutes before his muscles went weak and dumped him to the floor. Now he laid on his side, limp and fuzzy, even as part of his mind screamed at him to get up. He tried, but all he could feel was a tingle in his fingertips. 

Somewhere far away was the sound of a door opening. Footsteps on a metal floor, ringing through his shoulder right into his skull. He continued to lie there, motionless and helpless, as he fought the lead in his veins and tried to move.

Nothing happened. Not even the twitch of a finger. 

Someone was speaking. He could hear the voice, the low tones, smug, but couldn’t distinguish the words. His eyes had sagged half shut-- everything was so warm. His muscles had been so tight for so long, always tense, always on guard, feeling everyone’s eyes on him, looking to him for leadership, feeling Shiro’s judging gaze and Kolivan’s evaluating one, both always so disappointed, waiting for the other shoe to drop-- now that they were relaxed it felt like melting. It might’ve been sore if he hadn’t been so high. 

The voice paused. Then something touched the back of his neck, the pale strip above the collar of the flight suit he’d been stripped down to, tucked away under his wild hair. A hand. Warm. Bare. Skin to skin. 

Keith’s flesh prickled. 

He hadn’t realized how cold he was before. The eternal coolness of his skin, the chill that followed him everywhere like a cloak of fog. But now it was melting too, just like him, melting away into licks of warmth and satisfaction and comfort and  _ safe.  _ He felt his throat work, letting out a sound he couldn’t hear, and the voice answered with a sharp and surprised exclamation. 

“Oh!” they said, and the hand pulled away, and all of a sudden Keith broke. 

He didn’t want it to go. He didn’t want to be alone again, he wasn’t ready to be cold again, just a little longer. 

This time he heard the sound he made, a pathetic keen, but was too caught up in the buzzing in his ears to care. Thankfully the hand returned and he gave a grateful purr, the vibration resonating in his chest in a way he’d been repressing for so long, and weakly curled his body towards the visitor as well as he could when his every molecule was going molten. 

The hand stroked there for a few moments before venturing off, running up to tangle and slide through Keith’s hair. He was too blissed out to move but his consciousness tracked its every motion, making a map of lit up nerve endings everywhere it went. The fingertips left his hair, dragged delicately over his forehead, his nose, his cheekbone, down his jaw, leaving a line of flickering fire, before sliding around and just behind his ear.

Even if he’d been sober he wouldn’t have been able to stop the sound that left him at that moment. Dimly the voice laughed but Keith didn’t even notice; he’d disappeared, disintegrated into the river Styx, and nothing else mattered. Nothing matter but the fact that someone was there, someone loved him, someone cared about him, someone was willing to just sit and touch without expecting anything from him in return, and he’d never admitted it to himself but it was all he’d ever wanted. 

He had no idea how long it took him to realize it wasn’t just a disembodied hand. It was Lotor, the Galra Prince, his enemy, and he’d been captured and drugged and he didn’t actually want any of this. 

It still took him five more minutes of gentle caresses to convince his body to roll over and away from the fingers. Relief and disappointment warred in his belly when they didn’t follow. 

“It’s so sad,” Lotor tsked, and it was a shock to the system to finally be understanding words again. “You poor thing. They don’t know what you need, do they? You probably don’t even know yourself.”

Keith told himself the sympathy he was hearing in Lotor’s voice was a trick of the drug and nothing more. 

“Don’t worry. As long as you’re with me, I’ll take care of you.”

_ Lies,  _ Keith reminded his brain,  _ he lies, he’s lying. _

Then something drew Lotor away and Keith curled into a ball against the metal wall of his cell. The chill had returned in full force and he was shivering; he refused to think about why. His mind was still too hazy for it, anyhow.

Then Zethrid came for him, and dragged him to the bridge, and his eyes still weren’t working quite right but he could still recognize the stark whiteness of the Castle through the video feed, and his cheeks felt hot when he was deposited on the floor beside Lotor’s chair. His muscles had begun to respond to him but it wasn’t enough yet. He couldn’t run or fight yet, so when Lotor pulled his head to the side and he felt the prick of a needle, he fell back on words. 

“No. No, no more, I don’t want to.” He had to swallow bile as he said it, because there was a part of him that was fighting back. The part of him that missed feeling warm like a child wrapped in its mother's embrace and just wanted to feel like that again. The part of him he could usually silence with stern reminders of selfishness, but would no longer listen.

Then the drug was back.

And Keith melted down to magma. 

* * *

_ Cold.  _ It was the first thing he recognized when he came back to consciousness-- overwhelming, all encompassing, bone deep cold. And underneath was the pain he could just barely remember from before; the scratch and scrape of gloved hands over his skin, not giving him what he wanted like before. 

He remembered being confused, and upset, and scared. Why was this happening when it had been so nice before? Had he done something wrong? Why didn’t they want to touch him anymore? And that all came out in anger.

He wasn’t angry anymore. Just cold. 

The room he woke to was white, too bright white, and he scrunched his eyes shut against it. Then he was falling forward (when had he gotten upright?) and someone caught him. Words tickled against his ears, something about a pod and a toxin, but he couldn’t comprehend them.

Someone was holding him again. 

The purr rose in his chest. His body was moved and laid down amongst soft things, another draping over his shoulders, and for a moment he was sated.

Then the hands holding him began to withdraw and a cry burst from his throat. 

Instantly they returned. Keith settled again under their touch, not knowing or caring who it was so long as it was warm still. More words were spoken and this time he understood. 

“It’s ok, Keith, we’re not going anywhere.”

It wasn’t Lotor. It was someone else. Someone gentle. 

With a content sigh he curled up into a ball, the purr still rippling out of him, and settled into the haze. 

Keith floated for what felt like hours, letting his breath come easy and slow. Awareness crept back in bits and pieces like it had before, letting him distinguish the hand rubbing circles on his upper back and the blanket laid out beneath his cheek. It was Shiro’s hand.

Pidge hadn’t been lying when she’d fought Shiro on leaving him with Lotor. They’d come back for him. Something in his chest squeezed. 

When he peeled his eyes open the room remained blurred, like one of those hoax photos of Bigfoot, but he could distinguish the shape of Shiro sitting next to him. With a great amount of effort he turned his head, finding Pidge sitting on his other side, and suddenly realized the sound he was making. 

He cut it off abruptly, and despite the comfort of a moment before, couldn’t help but recoil when the action caught the attention of the other two paladins. 

“Keith,” murmured Shiro, his voice drifting in and out like radio static, “how are you feeling?”

He forced out a hum that cracked in the middle. A slim hand slid into his and squeezed tight-- Pidge, wiping her cheeks with her free hand. 

“We’re sorry, Keith,” she whispered. “We’re sorry.”

His lips fell into a frown. What did they have to be sorry for? They hadn’t done anything wrong. He looked at her and shook his head, still too dazed to form words but hoping it would be enough. 

“We don’t have to talk now.” Shiro’s hand moved from his back to his head, combing through his hair. Even with the drug wearing off, it felt better than when Lotor had done it, because Shiro knew him. Knew what to do to make him relax again without the help of chemicals. “Just sleep now. You still have a few more hours before the toxin gets out completely.”

Keith hesitated, eyeing Pidge, who gave him a wobbly smile when she noticed. 

“Shiro’s right. It can wait.”

Any other time that wouldn’t have been enough, he would’ve fought the pull of sleep until the problem was solved, but now he was still too pliant to resist it. 

He faded away, content with the warmth of the two bodies alongside him. 


End file.
